


In the time of need

by Zoadgo



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Generally suffering Ivar, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: Bishop Heahmund does not care for Ivar in the slightest, he can never forgive him for the torture he has inflicted upon him. Still, Heahmund plays Ivar's games, abides by Ivar's schedule because the mad viking is the only thing keeping him alive. When Ivar breaks from his standard routine with Heahmund, the Bishop knows something is wrong. For all that he may hate what Ivar has done to him in the past, he must find out and rectify the situation.





	In the time of need

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warnings in the end notes. Please click through to read if anything in the tags might possibly be a trigger to you.**

Ivar and Bishop Heahmund have a routine. Not a routine that Heahmund had much of a hand in making, nor one that he would have chosen had he had an actual say in the matter, but it is a routine nonetheless. In the morning, he ignores any summons for him - of which there is always one from Ivar - and trains. In the afternoon, he trains more and ignores Ivar watching him from the peripheries of the fighters. In the evening, he plays games of strategy with Ivar, or discusses religion, or simply sits in his room and prays as Ivar watches him.

Not the best of schedules, or the most comfortable to the Bishop, but still something to hold to in order to keep him sane among the heathens.

Heahmund didn’t think that he would mind deviation from the norm, had prayed for it many times, in fact. And yet, when he wakes one day and there is no warrior with some curt demand from Ivar outside of his room, it puts him immediately on edge. Such a thing is relatively easily pushed from his mind by the exertion of morning skirmishes and sparring, but unease still sits in the back of his mind. And in the afternoon, when no Ivar shows up to watch him train with the heathen army, Heahmund sheaths his sword with a noise of disgust, storming away from a very confused viking with an axe still raised as if to strike the Bishop.

Ivar had, of course, taken over the most opulent building in York to be his own personal quarters. That meant Heahmund had plenty of time to build up all sorts of indignant rage and excuses as he stalked through the stone hallways - how dare Ivar force him to fight for him, and then ignore him? How dare he exclude Ivar from his plans, if that was the reason why he hadn’t summoned Heahmund that day. How dare he-

A sound rips through the halls, a cry of equal parts agony and fury, and it cuts through all of the foolish thoughts in Heahmund’s mind. His pace quickens somewhat, because he knows that voice. He’s heard it taunt him countless times, dictate his torment, ridicule his very being. Yet it had also been his only source of solace, the only one that would speak to him as human, that would let him talk back, that would let him fight. 

Ivar’s voice cries out again, and Heahmund’s heart catches in his throat. He’s rushing, now, running to his captor who has also been his salvation, of a sort. Heahmund has seen Ivar in many states; calmly plotting, maniacally delighting in outsmarting enemies and allies alike, screaming like a madman in the middle of a battlefield. But he’s never heard him sound like this before, even in the height of anger or despair. Heahmund tells himself that the only reason he runs is that Ivar is all that keeps him alive in the middle of this army, but the pit in his stomach tells him otherwise.

“Ho there, Bishop.” There are guards outside of Ivar’s door, as always, but they stop him where normally they let him pass with a sneer or a snide comment. That doesn’t seem to interest them today, as that horrible noise comes again, seeming to be from some form of demon rather than a man. One of them looks nervously over his shoulder at the door behind him, and the other shakes his head.

“Let me pass,” Heahmund demands. He would never ask anything of these heathens, only order it as if he still carried the authority of his former glory. Normally they would take offense to it, but- well, today is not normal, that much he can be sure of. 

“I’m saying this for your own good, no one should go in there today.” The guard leans forward to speak, as if conspiring, and Heahmund scoffs. 

“I am not afraid of Ivar, and I will see him,” he says, with the certainty of a holy man who knows he is going to Heaven even if a mad heathen decides to kill him.

“Just give it a day-”

“No.” Heahmund cuts the guard off and brushes past him, pushing through the door into Ivar’s room. The guard mumbles something before the door slams shut behind him, but Heahmund doesn’t hear. Or maybe he does hear, but he certainly doesn’t register it, for the sight before him drives all logical thought from his mind.

Blood. So much blood, streaked at the bases of pillars, pooling and dragged around the floor. Destroyed furniture, shredded furs and bedding, a state of disarray and carnage that Heahmund would expect to see in a battlefield or a village just ransacked, not in the middle of a stronghold. He has seen worse before, certainly, but this… he was not expecting this.

And at the center of it all is Ivar, who doesn’t even look up at the Bishop when he enters the room. His chest heaves wildly with inefficient breaths, exhales coming almost as grunts through gritted and bared teeth. His face is sprayed with blood, some leaking from his mouth and foaming as he breathes, staring at his legs with a fury Heahmund has never seen before. In his hand, one of his many knives, dripping copious amounts of blood. Too much blood.

Heahmund looks for the victim of Ivar’s rage, for whichever poor soul must have been dismembered by the mad viking leader. But the only people in the room are him and Ivar, and his stomach sinks with a stone as he realizes what that means. Black conceals blood well, and with a sickening surety, Heahmund sees flashes of withered white shining through the tatters of Ivar’s pants.

“Ivar.” Heahmund calls to him softly, but Ivar makes no sign of hearing him. He calls again, louder and more insistent, “Ivar.”

Ivar’s head snaps towards him, and were Heahmund to ever fear him, he would in that moment. He looks every inch a wild animal, trapped and volatile. Heahmund knows how easily that knife could find his throat, but he has to believe. Believe in God, and in Ivar, that he will not die this day. A moment stretches into an eternity, and Heahmund scarcely allows himself to breathe.

And then, in a flash, the animal retreats, and Heahmund is left staring down at the same Ivar he is used to. Perhaps a little more manic, but human once more. 

“Your Grace,” Ivar mocks him, waving the knife around carelessly, “today is not a good day. Did my guards not tell you?”

“They did.”

“Ah, you Christians, never doing what you’re told.” Ivar tsks, as if chiding a small child, “Well, come back tomorrow. I will play with you then.”

“No.” Heahmund takes his life into his hands once more, and Ivar levels him with a look just this side of murderous.

“Yes.” He hisses, and Heahmund takes a step closer. The point of Ivar’s knife aims straight at his throat, and Heahmund knows Ivar could kill him and lose no sleep over it. But this- something within him compels him to help.

Words form on Heahmund’s lips, a prayer to God to spare Ivar this suffering. Sure, he is a heathen and unworthy of the attention of God, but his mind is sharp, and whatever madness drives him in this moment is a torment Heahmund does not believe he deserves. Perhaps he also prays for himself, that he may help Ivar, and save his own life in the process, but a prayer must always be selfless. His goal must be to help Ivar, not to save his own skin, and he feels the truth of that in his very soul.

“DO NOT PRAY FOR ME!” The words seem to tear Ivar’s throat with their vitriol as he screams at Heahmund, stilling the Bishop’s holy motions. He spits blood onto the ground and bares his teeth with a noise something other than human. The feral beast Heahmund had seen earlier is returning, and some small part of him wonders if he should run in the face of it. But he knows he must not, he cannot back down from this.

“Then what would you have me do?” Heahmund asks, as Ivar hunches over, groaning, hand convulsing on the hilt of his blade and gripping it so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Leave,” Ivar whispers. Heahmund does no such thing, and Ivar screams again, not looking at him, but at his own legs, “GET OUT!”

“If you were going to kill me, I would be dead. I will not leave, Ivar.” Heahmund refuses the command, and Ivar makes the noise that had drawn Heahmund here in such a hurry in the first place. That violent, sorrowful cry, ripped from the depths of his spirit as he raises his knife to bring it down upon his already lacerated legs.

Heahmund lunges forward, just barely faster than the downward arc of the blade. He catches Ivar’s arm with both hands, preventing him from further damaging his body, but it leaves him with no way of preventing Ivar’s other hand from swinging solidly into his jaw. Heahmund is knocked back for a moment, tasting blood and somewhat marvelling at the strength in that singular blow, and Ivar takes advantage of that to sink his knife into his leg several more times, a manic frenzy to the self-mutilation. Heahmund throws himself at Ivar, grabbing him around the chest and preventing him from getting the room to take another swing at him. Ivar struggles, with feral screams and hands clawing awkwardly at Heahmund’s forearms, but Heahmund holds strong, as if preventing Ivar from spilling more of his own blood is the most important thing in the world.

“They are dead, let me get rid of them!” Ivar cries, spitting blood and fury.

“Ivar, no! They are your legs!” Heahmund grits his teeth and holds firm against Ivar’s struggles, although only barely.

“I can’t even feel them! You do not let a wilted crop rot in the field,” Ivar pants, momentarily pausing his efforts to free himself in order to suck in fevered breaths, every muscle in his upper body tense within Heahmund’s grasp. “Do not force me to live like this, Bishop, I will not thank you for it.”

“I do not need your thanks,” Heahmund responds honestly, and Ivar falls into another frenzy. But in the midst of his struggles, something within Ivar seems to break. His hands, clawing at Heahmund’s arms to free himself, instead grip onto his jacket as if it were a lifeline. The angry, inhuman screeches turn into heart wrenching sobs. Heahmund experiments with releasing his grip a little, and Ivar does not break free and return to his rampage on his own flesh.

“Shh, Ivar, shh,” Heahmund hushes Ivar, dragging both of them slightly across the floor so that he can lean against a pillar and pull the weeping viking against his chest. Ivar turns in his grip to bury his head against Heahmund’s chest, fingers gripping onto him with a desperate force, and Heahmund wraps his arms around him in a more comforting manner than moments before. He strokes Ivar’s back and mutters vague promises about things getting better. He hopes they will not turn out to be lies.

It is there, with Ivar held tight to his chest, listening to his pitiful please to many Gods and his own mother, that Heahmund sees humanity in the heathen. He sees a deep, overpowering sorrow, which Ivar surely must turn into rage, for in no other way could he continue to live. And he understands him better, understands his violent glee. Because a rage like that must have an outlet, must be known to the world, and if this is the way it comes out when there’s not a war, well…

“You must plan a raid, Ivar. Conquer a kingdom.” Heahmund counsels what he has hated the thoughts of, war against his people. Against Christians. A part of him recoils from it, but another part of him holds a broken man in his arms and knows of only one way to put him back together.

Ivar sobs still to pathetic sniffles, and he mumbles against Heahmund’s chest, “Will you fight with me?”

God has to have had a purpose, in sending him to the Great Heathen Army. There must have been a plan, for Ivar to have seen him fight and become fascinated with him. Heahmund knows that all of this is part of what God wants, the same way that his holy war was. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand over the back of Ivar’s head, stroking his ragged braids.

“I will. I think, for whatever reason, I must.”

Ivar chuckles against Heahmund’s chest, a small, sad sound. But it is something human, and although Heahmund has sacrificed much this day by promising to fight his own people, he can’t help but feel like he has won a great victory.

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warnings: This fic deals with Ivar hating himself (more specifically his legs) and cutting/stabbing them with a knife. Although the act is not extremely graphically described, it may be unsettling to some readers.**
> 
> Anyway, now that we're done with that, can I just say holy shit I love the weird dynamic between Heahmund and Ivar? Very twisted, I have a few other ideas for them. Also, apologies for the general quality of this work, I haven't finished anything in literal months and like any other neglected skill, writing deteriorates. My beta [Etra](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) is the most amazing human being for still being there for me after such a bout of writer's block, and for always fixing my messes and calling me out on my tenses, y'all should send her some love.
> 
> Anyway, if you want to talk to me (or send me prompts for these guys, I have one other fic in the works and I would love more ideas for them) I'm over on [ tumblr!](http://jonnmurphy.tumblr.com) And thanks in advanced for reading/commenting/leaving kudos <3


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